


untimely

by sakasamasa



Category: Final Fantasy XV, Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Blasphemy probably, Gen, Violence, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:33:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25464031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakasamasa/pseuds/sakasamasa
Summary: Outlast x FFXV crossover one-shot.
Kudos: 1





	untimely

Prompto jolts awake, curled into himself like a child and shivering from the stale, frigid air that somehow always manages to smell like blood no matter where he is. Where is this, again? An outline of a metal shelf. A broom braced against the door handle to prevent anyone from getting in; though, if anyone did, he’d be royally screwed no matter the extra effort. Cleaning supplies, buckets and stacks of toilet rolls. The closet he’s called his sanctuary for the past hour, the silence after a harrowing chase. He still feels the burn in his lungs, the ache in his shoulder where the Lion’s bruising grip had almost sealed his shitty fate. _No, I won’t die here_. He thumbs the corner of his journal he feels poking through the leathery fabric of his bag. He’s written it into existence, so to speak, but the further down (or, up) the rabbit hole of Mount Massive he goes, the more he doubts the verity of that statement.

The humming in his skull is getting worse, his throat’s dry and scratchy and his feet are so sore, he might not be able to outrun the next murderous lunatic when the time comes. The past him who so confidently wrote that down obviously didn’t expect any worse, “worse” referring to being chased in a rancid sewer by a hulking and mutilated ex-soldier, falling from a window ledge into a pile of discarded corpses, almost being assaulted by inmates that were at least twice his size, outrunning not one- but two maniacs with machetes, losing two (two!) actual _fingers_ to a crazed surgeon and now having to take a nap in a dirty, dusty supply closet.

He absentmindedly asks himself what’s next. If there’s a “next” at all. The elevator still doesn’t work and he just got out of the sewers; not at all where he should be. Morbidly enough, he kind of hopes it won’t be the Lion on his tail as soon as he steps out into the halls again. Better to be stabbed to death by a rusty machete than to be ripped apart by bare hands. Probably.

Prompto pushes himself off of the wall with a wince and takes his camera out once again. It’s a somewhat abysmal sort of trip down memory lane, but he figures he’d rather stall for some more peace and quiet by looking through recent footage than to get out and be chased again. A vestige of panic zaps him as he watches footage of himself shackled to a chair, the variant called Doctor Trager positioning the camera _just right_ in that porcelain-tile room of nightmares. His own face looks back at him, eyes wide and filled with bone-deep terror. He skips to the next video before Trager reveals those giant garden shears he used to cut off his fingers, onto a piece of footage of him being chased, hallways lit up by the green glow of a night-vision camera rushing past as his harrowed breathing emanates from the shitty camera speakers. Why did he film that, again? Chains rattle behind him and a coarse growl of “blondie” sends fear up his spine all the same, so he pauses the recording and moves on. Documents follow, pages upon pages of fine-letter print. Some that he didn’t take the time to read in their entirety, some so full of science-y jargon that he can’t even begin to understand them. But he’s got the gist of things now. Mount Massive Asylum is nothing more than a farcical institution for Murkoff Incorporated to violate each and every one of the principles of the Nuremberg Code and getting away with it by using psychologically impaired criminals that supposedly no one will miss. He reads records upon records of “failed” experiments that dozens of inmates have suffered through before they eventually killed them, and he’s a hundred-and-one percent sure he’s only scratched the surface with the meagre amount of legible documents he’s found. There’s one link that connects all of the deaths, and it’s something called the Morphogenic Engine, a machine of sorts that fucks up people’s brains beyond sense which, so far as he’s read, has only really resulted in death or a complete alteration of the mind. He still doesn’t understand to what end these blatant violations of human rights have taken place, but he’s damn sure that he needs to expose the abuse and atrocities happening at Mount Massive and fast. He needs to get the fuck out of here for that reason as much as he wants to get the fuck home and not be in a place where he might get killed for no other reason than _‘I want his liver_.’

The notion brings him to his feet, a whisper of courage breathing life into his sore body as he unhooks the broom and opens the closet door with a little too much vigour. It might have been a person standing right in front of him in the doorway, as if they were waiting for him to appear.

The last thing he hears -rather than feels- is a big, hollow “thump” to the head.

The next few moments are spent on a wobbly line between consciousness and the dark black void in his head. He vaguely registers a throbbing pain in his head and being dragged along by something. Once again he hears strange whispers and noises like TV static, buzzing, buzzing, buzzing. A pained groan escapes him as he’s sat in a chair of sorts, cold metal colliding with his back.

A snap like the flick of a light switch catches in his ears.

“Rise and shine.”

“He’s awake?”

“He will be.”

Light floods his vision as he opens his eyes, revealing a large kitchen space lit up by a single lamp hanging over the table he’s seated at.

“Apologies for the rather spartan conditions- the cafeteria is… quite a mess and no place to dine in," A voice behind him states.

Prompto thinks he’s seen footage of the Male Ward’s cafeteria through the security cams, and… the man’s not wrong. He tries to turn his head, but his neck cries out in protest so he stays put. The voice is distinctly accented, posh and shockingly articulate, unlike the other inmates and their slurred threats. For a moment he’s under the impression that he’s among sane, clear-minded people once more, but that hasty relief capsizes and sinks when the man enters his view. The first thing he sees is eyes, cold and green in one socket and mutilated beyond recognition in the other. The left-hand side of the man’s face is tight with burn scars, reaching into a small part of his hairline. His left ear seems useless by how much it’s been eaten away at.

Prompto gasps, instinctively trying to put his hand to his mouth only to discover both are bound to the arms of the chair.

The stranger only smiles politely, the left corner of his lips refusing to budge the same way. He straightens himself back up as Prompto notices the blood-stained apron and the black gloves. There’s a butcher’s knife in one of his hands, already red and dripping with viscera.

“I'm sorry if my appearance offends you; I’ve had some trouble getting used to it myself.”

“You look fine, Iggy. Don’t worry about it.”

_Iggy?_

“If you say so, Your Highness. I’ll go cook us up some dinner. Be a dear and provide some refreshments for our guest.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

The next face that he meets is… oddly familiar. Young. Pallid bordering on ghoulish, not spared the reddish growths he’s seen on other patients, but familiar nonetheless. Black, pin-straight hair framing his face and deep, inky eyes. A nervous smile that almost makes him look… normal. Like he doesn’t actually belong here.

“Well, what do you want to drink? We’ve got fizzy drinks, courtesy of the vending machine.”

It takes a while for Prompto to regain his bearings and realise that he’s supposed to answer. He clears his throat, but even then his words come out rough.

“Ah- um… Anything’s fine. Thank you.”

“No prob. The name’s Noctis, by the way. But you can call me _Noct_.”

“…Prompto. Argentum.”

Noctis -Noct- gives him a neighbourly smile, and once again there’s something gnawing at Prompto’s mind.

“I know,” he says, and walks off. The kitchen door swings twice behind him.

Prompto watches him leave a little dazedly before “Iggy” pipes up.

“So. Prompto.” The way the man speaks his name is teetering on the edge of threatening, for all his earlier nonchalance, “The Prince seems to know you, yet you’ve only just arrived. What brings you to a dismal place like this?”

“I’m… a rookie journalist. Got an anonymous tip about Mount Massive, that something was up, so I went and checked it out.”

“You’re a journalist? I suppose that would explain the camera.”

“Yeah, um, it’s just for documenting what I’ve come across. You’re… you and Noctis are… inmates, right?”

“That is correct. I’m sure you’ve met Gladio as well, no? He’s the one who brought you here, after all.”

“Gladio... You mean Gladiolus Amicitia?” A name in a document he found echoes in the back of his mind. Ex-military, a just-short-of-perfect candidate for the Morphogenic Engine, so they said, until his psyche started rejecting the treatment. The records said it was a miracle he didn’t die shortly after, though he developed a nasty habit of self-injury which almost lead him to such a fate either way. A tall, muscled man in his late twenties. Long, brown hair, faded tattoos, multiple scars across his chest and back…

“The _Lion_?!” Prompto gawks at Iggy. The massive, bouldering terror that chased him from the administration block to the sewers and back is the one that brought him here?

“As many would prefer to call him,” Iggy mumbles. “Yes. When His Highness got wind of your arrival, he had Gladio bring you here. Don’t judge him too harshly; he’s simply a tad… obtuse as of late.”

“He tried to kill me!”

“I’m sure he did, before the Prince commanded otherwise.”

“The… Prince?”

The metal doors swung open again, Noctis settling before him with a few metal cans. Prompto only now notices he’s wearing some sort of cloak made from various fabrics, and atop his head a thing made of black wires welded together to form a circlet. Is Noctis the Prince, then?

“I hope you like ebony. Seems the other inmates got all the good stuff. Greedy fucks. Oh, hold on, I’ll get you out of those restraints.”

“Your Highness-“ Iggy protests from behind.

“Okay,” Noctis concedes with a sigh, “just the one.”

The tight leather around his right wrist is unwrapped with care. Noctis’ hands are spindly, covered in tiny scratches and scrapes. Nails frayed, bitten and dirty with what might be dried blood. His hands slow when the pressure lets up, but they don’t move away, hovering just over the gruesome mess that used to be Prompto's right index finger.

“Your hands,” Noctis utters, giving both hands a once-over, “I’m guessing this wasn’t an accident.”

“It…” Prompto shakes his head, “was someone they called Trager. Richard Trager. This is nothing though; you should see the other guy.”

He says it with a laugh, but it’s frail and watery. Just thinking about the hell he escaped there makes his stomach churn painfully.

Noctis’ eyes widen. Prompto once again catches them, deep as a dried well and wonders where he’s seen them before. The news? The office? The grocery store? The bus stop? A playground. Monkey bar, plastic slide, sandboxes. Memories tinged with an absence.

“ _Trager_?” Noctis asks. “How’d you escape?”

 _Oh,_ Prompto realises. Elementary school. Something like a best friend until they parted ways for junior high. They said they’d keep in touch, but in the end, they grew apart. Inevitable, really; he moved to a neighbouring city for his dad’s new job. Noctis stayed, even fell off the radar completely when Prompto tried to contact him years down the line. He thought nothing of it then; Noctis probably had his own life without him, just like he did. How could he have forgotten? How did Noctis end up in here?

“…I guess I just got lucky,” He utters, hoping his eyes show the full extent of his surprise at their impromptu reunion. Noctis only smiles wider at him.

A furnace clicks, the sound of gas being set alight. Lowered to mid-high, a pan clatters down on the stove.

“Medium-rare, Your Highness?”

“You know it. What about you, Prompto?”

“Uhm… s-same for me, I guess.”

Something hits the heat and sizzles, hisses with bubbling moisture. Prompto thinks it’s almost pleasant until it’s not. He has half a mind to block his nose with his free right hand, but that would be rude. He can smell that it’s meat, but it’s unlike anything he’s ever smelled before. Deeper, less fragrant.

_What the fuck is going on here?_

Prompto brings the opened can of ebony to his nose to block out the odour, then he takes a tentative sip. When the earthy sweetness coats his tongue he realises how incredibly parched he’s been, and downs the contents of the can in one big, breathless gulp. When he tilts his head back to catch the last few drops, his neck protests, but he can’t be bothered by a little pain now.

Noctis laughs, and it’s a wonderful sound. Clear as bells and hushed as light rain.

“I’ll open up another one for ya.”

In between heaving breaths, Prompto nods in gratitude, the can smooth and cold in his hand. The extra bit of clarity has him looking at his feet as a wave of anxiety overtakes him.

“Your bag’s fine,” Noctis assures. “We put it in that shelf over there for safekeeping. Now, how’d you manage to slip out of Trager’s den? No one who’s been there so far has ever gotten out.”

“I… killed him, sort of. A former Murkoff exec, I think, he distracted Trager so I could get away. Had to find a key for the elevator. I was almost in the clear when he reached through the metal gates of the thing, but he ended up getting crushed between the floors.”

He makes a face at the memory, at the image of Trager’s awkwardly mangled body, but Noctis just laughs, and it’s very different this time. Higher in pitch, looser and sadistic.

“Haha! You hear that, Iggy? The Doctor’s dead! The fucker’s finally dead!”

The gas clicks off, the lingering sizzle slowly fizzling out into silence. The smell’s still there.

“Language, Your Highness. On that note, dinner is served.”

Where Noctis gets both a knife and fork, Prompto gets a single fork. A plate is put before him, showing a piece of steak-looking meat already cut up into bite-sized pieces. Prompto swallows dryly, an uneasiness starting to boil in his gut. The question dances on his tongue, but his left hand’s still bound and he’s reminded that these two have been affected by the Morphogenic Engine just as badly as the rest of the inmates of Mount Massive.

“Thanks, Igs. I’m starving.”

Noctis gets to work, slicing into the meat with practiced etiquette. Prompto watches a neat little piece being picked from the fork’s prongs by strangely clean teeth. Then he stares at his plate, watching the steam rise, watching the pinkish redness glisten in electric lamplight.

“Something wrong?”

Iggy’s watching him with too much intent, he notes. Noctis gives the burned man a warning look where he can’t see. The air is heavy with the smell of roasted meat and roiling tension.

“No,” Prompto whispers before he finds his voice, robotic in tone and the way he grabs the fork. “No, it’s fine.”

He pointedly avoids either gazes on him as he brings a piece to his mouth, trying his damnedest to convince himself that nothing’s wrong. He will not ask whether he’s putting human flesh into his mouth, he will not bring up that he’s been a devout vegetarian for the past four years and he will not bring up that he’d rather get up and leave _right now_.

Salty. A little on the tougher side, distinctly unlike any other piece of red meat he’s ever had, if he remembers correctly. Oh, God, no.

His teeth grind down, whittling away at the fibres. Oh, fuck. He still has to actually swallow now, right? He can see Iggy silently bearing down on him from his peripheral, looking like he could put a knife in his throat all the while.

If he gags just a little, none of them point it out. Noctis even smiles at him before continuing on with his own slab of meat. Prompto counts the remaining pieces, wonders if he should just start chomping down to make it end faster or if that’ll only make him throw it back up.

“It’s good,” he adds, like an afterthought. An outer space alien could recognise how disingenuous it sounds, but Iggy seems satisfied with it.

“Right?” Noctis parrots.

Iggy then straightens up, revealing a gloved hand holding the same bleeding butcher’s knife from behind his back like it had any reason being there and slipping it into one of the apron’s pockets. Prompto puts another piece between his molars for good measure.

“I’ll go bring Gladio some as well,” Iggy says. “He probably hasn’t had anything substantial in days.”

“Mm,” Noctis hums in-between bites, “He should be just outside, but he might’ve wandered off.”

“I’ll be right back, gentlemen.”

“Take care.”

Noctis waves at the burned man who exits the kitchen with a smaller plate, disappearing into the darkness.

“That was close, huh? Sorry. Iggy’s very particular about his cooking.”

Prompto forces the piece in his mouth down his throat, tempted to ask now that he might not get killed for it, but refraining for the sake of his sanity. Blissful ignorance, if you will. Still, knowing he could’ve died just now isn’t really much of a relief. He hums in acknowledgement.

“Look at it this way,” Noctis says, “You might not get anything else for a while. You’re probably still looking for a way out, aren’t you?”

“See that door?” He points to the far end of the kitchen, another doorway. “You’ll need to watch your footing in there; it’s a mess, but the large metal doors to your right will lead you to the courtyard.”

Prompto recalls, strapped to the wheelchair the Doctor had put him in, briefly taunted by the exit of the Male Ward, doors busted to reveal the outside just a few steps away.

“I think I know what you’re talking about. If it’s the courtyard, I could get out from there, right?”

Noctis winces in advance.

“Well, I wouldn’t try getting over the barbed wire on the fences. Or the moats dug out on the other side.”

“Oh.” Prompto stills his enthusiasm.

“Maybe… I can find a ladder or something.”

“Maybe,” Noctis says noncommittally, putting another piece of meat between his teeth.

“But,” Prompto starts, leaning forward a little, “You’re really Noctis, aren’t you? From Chocobo Elementary?”

He really can’t deny how comforting it is to see a familiar face, even if that face has changed so, so very much since last time they saw each other. He remembers a Noctis with soft, almost angelical features. Rounder eyes, rounder everything, really. It’s a stark difference from the spindly, ghastly figure before him now, his once unblemished skin now marked with reddish growths and patches of discolouration. But his eyes are the same.

“Yeah, it’s me. You’ve changed, haven’t you? Could’ve sworn you were a little heavier back then.”

Prompto snickers, laughing off years worth of insecurities, harsh training regimens and merciless dieting.

“I could say the same of you,” he retorts, belatedly realising it’s not really a fair comparison, considering his former best friend’s circumstances. Noctis’ earlier teasing mood seems to fall away as well.

“At least I’ve got Iggy around to keep me fed.”

“Noct…”

Prompto watches Noctis meet his gaze again, something unspeakable behind the dark veil of his eyes. Something familiar. Buzzing in the back of their brains.

“What happened to you?” He asks carefully.

Noctis leans back a little, turning to the side like he’s nervous. He’s no longer in the kitchen, the cutlery forgotten in his hands.

“Ah... well... more like what didn’t happen, huh?”

Despite his attempt at keeping jovial, the absence of a smile- even the slightest upward quirk of his lips- robs his face of any light. His hand goes up to his neck, starting to rub circles at the back.

“See- They put me here,” he says, sounding distant, “I got put in here because they wanted my dad’s money. I killed him, my- my cousin. Before he could do me in, you know? Frame it as a suicide so no one could get in his way of my family’s fortune. No more contenders. My dad died, my girlfriend died- same accident. Same, stupid accident. God, it- it broke me. But the rest of the family was always out for my dad’s money, even after _that_. The fucking leeches- they-“

When Noctis looks at him, Prompto recognises the other variants of the Asylum. The madness, the insanity, nothing but pain. Nothing but damage. Fear. Buzzing.

“When I killed him, my shitstain of a cousin- he had it coming- they put me in here. They put me in here and I lost everything.”

Prompto can do little but listen, an icy hollowness opening up in his chest as he hears frantic words spill from the lips of his childhood best friend. For all the familiarities, there’s no single trace of that curious, well-spoken and reserved boy he’d admired from afar for so long. Who reached out to him unlike the others and accepted him without question.

“This place,” Noctis continues, scratching at his neck, “it took everything away from me. Everything they could take, they took. The guards- the staff. They didn’t care, some even- some even joined in. They just kept taking more and more of me when I thought there wasn’t anything left to take. But then Iggy came, and Gladio came, and they protected me. I was saved.”

Noctis’ hands start to twitch like he’s losing control over his body. The hand that comes away from his neck leaves glaring red marks.

“Everyone in here, they’ve turned to the God now, they’re so scared now, but I know He doesn’t give a single shit about any of us. And He shouldn’t; nothing but monsters here. The Father, you’ve seen him, he’s convinced them all through blind faith. Easy, right? But I know better. It’s the Walrider now. It’s out there and it’s got all of us in here. It got _you_ in here. You feel it, don’t you? Like- like bees in the back of your brain? We all turn to it ‘cause it makes sense, gives us peace, but I know better. We’re all just selfish, looking for something to hold on to, because this is hell and we can’t get out.”

Prompto watches the other go silent for a moment as he stares off into space. Christ, he’s far, far gone.

“I don’t think you can, either,” Noctis starts again, less fevered. “The Walrider won’t let you, but if you give in, you wouldn’t want to let yourself run away.”

There’s some truth to the ramblings of a madman. Prompto can sometimes feel himself slipping already, when his heartbeat’s slow enough to go unheard and there aren’t any chattering voices to fill the long, echoing halls of Mount Massive. He’ll start seeing it on the walls. Like inverted splotches of ink, branching and receding over his vision. Just another reason why he needs to get out soon- hell, he shouldn’t even be sitting here, but Noctis continues and he listens.

“You fight it, it breaks you. You give in, it breaks you. Gladio’s done for, Iggy doesn’t realize he’s already gone, and I’m not gonna last. But _you_. If you can find a way out, it might not be too late for you.”

There’s a shift in the frigid air. Noctis moves over to undo the restraints on his left hand, bony fingers curling over fastened leather straps.

“You can get out of here, tell the world about what you’ve seen. Murkoff, the Walrider, the inmates- us. That’s what you want, right? Then you need to get up and go.”

The doors to the kitchen area open with a small gust and a metal sound. Prompto and Noctis look up like they’ve been caught in the headlights, and by the look on Iggy’s face, it’s an appropriate reaction. Silent anger quickly replaces confusion as Iggy’s still intact brow furrows.

“Noctis,” he says lowly, “What are you doing?”

“He needs to get out,” Noctis responds like it hurts him to say it. Prompto slowly comes to stand from the chair, taking the fork into his hand where neither can see. This could get ugly. Iggy persists.

“But you said-“

“I know- I know what I said, but he can’t stay.”

Iggy takes a step forward, hands out like he’s pleading.

“Did he persuade you? To let him go? Your Highness, this is good for you. Him being here is good for you. He can not go.”

“He has to.”

“I won’t let him. You need him, it’s just a matter of time before he realises he needs you. Don’t let him get away this time.”

“Prompto,” Noctis turns to him, “Your bag’s in the closet, like I said. Grab it and go.”

Prompto nods, apprehensive as he starts moving towards the closet, keeping his eyes fixed on Iggy who’s glaring daggers at him. Noctis puts himself firmly between the two, unshaken even as Iggy takes out the butcher’s knife. Steel glints, a quiet omen.

“He can’t go,” Iggy tries again, desperation starting to bleed into his previously graceful tone. His stance has grown looser too, less about poise, more about intimidation.

“He will go,” Noctis bites back. It’s then that he produces something like a shiv from one of his pockets.

Prompto has one hand reaching in the closet when Iggy advances.

“Ignis! Stop!” There’s a sob in Noctis’ voice as he himself moves to meet Iggy. His free hand takes hold of the one holding the butcher’s knife, and the whole becomes a deadly sort of tug-of-war. Prompto slings the bag over his head, feeling the blocky frame of his camera and his journal with relief before he hastily steps away from the closet. There’s a bang as Noctis is thrown aside by Iggy, the Prince's makeshift crown falls, and suddenly there’s a butcher’s knife in Prompto's face. Adrenaline pulls his hands up before he can even register what he’s doing and he barely catches Iggy’s arm as the glinting, blood-caked blade is redirected away from his head. Iggy’s strength is terrifying. Prompto’s arms are quivering with the effort of holding the other still, the blade still bearing down on him. It’s when Iggy removes one gloved hand from the hilt and tries wrenching his shaking hands away that fear shoots up his throat. Iggy overpowers him not a second later, and the butcher’s knife comes down to his bared neck.

“No!” There’s a shout before Iggy’s pulled away from him by the shoulders. The blade that was at his neck seems to have cut into the skin either way, but he can feel it’s not deep enough. He watches Noctis and Iggy fall to the floor, a mess of scrambling limbs and laboured breaths as they continue to struggle. Noctis gains the upper hand this time, managing to pin the other to the tiled floor. His black eyes are wide when he turns to his former best friend.

“Prompto, run!” He shouts, “What are you waiting for? Run!”

Despite the circumstances, Prompto feels like it’s too early. He feels like he shouldn’t leave Noctis here like this, like there’s more he can do. But what, really? What can he do to make the madness in Iggy’s mind stop?

“I’m sorry,” he mouths at first, the words barely a wheeze that escape his throat. Sorry for the years he’s spent ignorant. Sorry for denying Noctis the kindness of staying, even if it’s what the other wants. Sorry for defying Iggy’s wishes and causing them both so much pain.

“I’m sorry,” it comes out louder this time, if only to triumph over Iggy’s rising noises of protest. “I’m so sorry. I’ll come back for you.”

Noctis gives the barest hint of a nod, his features marred with the exertion of having to keep Iggy down.

“Now run!”

No time for goodbyes, no time for anything Prompto would have wanted to say. He turns his back on his friend and dashes towards the large doors, trying to ignore Iggy’s screams of unfounded anger and real despair. Noctis’ sobs for him to stop, to calm down. The echoes follow him out of the hall until the nightly air of the courtyard drowns it all out. He wants to look back, but he can’t. He keeps running. He has to keep going, and it’s much, much later that he can catch his breath, hunkered down behind a desk in the corner of an unnamed room. The barest hint of light shining in from the barred windows provides just enough to write in his journal pad. It’s a comfort to have this, still, though it’s painful and strange to use his injured hands. He stays there for a good few minutes, rambling off and wasting ink more so than documenting anything of real value. Soon the page is filled with things he wanted to say to Noctis, from stories from the past to the things he’s done since, to asking him if he still remembers this or that, to asking him what he has done since, to thanking him for letting him go when it seemed like he didn’t intend to at first. He signs off with a sigh, tearing the paper from the notepad. Who knows, if Gladio patrols this particular area too in search of him, he might stumble upon the piece of lined, crumpled paper he leaves atop the desk by the window. And if Noctis is still alive now, he might see it too. With that, Prompto comes out of his hiding spot, once more peering through the lens of the night-vision camera and making his way through the desolate halls of the Asylum. Further upwards, the Father said to him. A way out, he said. To the Chapel in the Asylum, closer to God. Upwards. Up, up and out, perhaps. Prompto can only hope. The buzzing in his head continues like droning cicadas in a summertime long passed, spent together years ago. Plastic slides, monkey bars and wooden swings.

_“I'll come back for you. Just stay alive, okay? I’ll look for you when all of this is over. Please, just stay alive.”_

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this in about 2 sittings on impulse. like yknow that feeling that you just have to finish a certain fic before you'll lose interest and never come back to it again? yeah. coincidentally i finished outlast 1 in 2 sittings as well, isnt that a doozy. will probably have to come back and fix any errors ive probably left in here


End file.
